A description of life lately, as would be appropriate for a preschool picture book:

TEN

• fingers and toes that the boys adore on a certain Little Miss
• times we remind people about “PERSONAL SPACE!  GIVE SOME PERSONAL SPACE!”  and “GENTLE!!!!” as they try to embark in Community Bouncy Seat Time
• minutes:  time it took for the Mama to fall asleep watching NCIS, even though she’d been waiting to watch it All.Day.Long. and was giggling during those few minutes, but the pull of sleep was too strong

NINE

• pounds – our next goal for weight (some to get to, some to lose+)
• o’clock:  time it feels acceptable to head to bed – any earlier just feels socially wrong, like drinking before noon

EIGHT

• average loads of laundry per week

SEVEN

• ty times seven – number of times Abe says “NO!”, stomps his foot, and engages in his Rights as a Toddler and the Mama engages in her Rights to Enforce Time Out (which isn’t so effective while stuck in the nursing chair)

SIX

• average hour everyone, and I mean *everyone*, is awake … and being fed … and dressed … with beds made (sigh)

FIVE

• different places people find a place to slumber in our rotating bed situation (Mama moves into Boo’s room to help her sleep, Abe moves into Mama’s room cause he can, Mama moves out of Boo’s room into Abe’s room to get some space, JJ and Hubby snore on)
• days between library visits induced by the guilt of knowing we’re taking up *that* much space on the shelf as the holds keep pouring in

FOUR

• times we’ve been to church, i.e. “Pass the Baby while Mama drinks coffee and gets to speak in complete sentences and use higher levels of thinking” time
• o’clock:  the hour in which the Mama is so grateful for friends bringing hot dinner and freezer meals – who knew a loaf of freshly baked bread could make a person weepy?

THREE

• fingers that bled when the Mama got tired of being clawed while nursing and clipped Little Miss’s fingernails
• hundred million pounds of guilt the Mama feels at the scabs on the fingers
• carseats to deal with:  that’s a lot of clipping and buckling

TWO

• big brothers who can’t get enough of their darling little sister (although they’re kinda done with each other)
• hours on average of consecutive sleep I get a night
• small people who are not having their needs met at any given time
• diaper-wearers, although we’re going to whittle that number down quickly (if possible)
• arms the Mama no longer has much time to use for things other than holding small people

ONE

• purple pacifier spit out in our general direction
• show on hulu watched per night:  working through Glee, Defying Gravity, Stargate Universe, Dollhouse, and planning a Battlestar Galactica binge someday soon
• month down with five members of the house
• chest that is the favorite place for a Little Miss to slumber
• tired, contented-in-a-weird-way Mama who knows wants to enjoy what she can, because this, too, shall pass

Mama Musings | 4 Comments »

Welcome to the world, Darling Daughter~

Did you know that I never thought I’d use those words together:  ”Darling” and “Daughter”?  Not that I didn’t think that you’d be darling, although we were a bit worried when you wouldn’t show us your profile during your last ultrasound, but instead smashed your face as far away from Dr. Tami’s picturewand as possible.  No, I never thought that I’d be a mama, much less a mama to someone who had the same bits’n'pieces as me:  yes, they’re complicated, and no, I still don’t know how or why everything works.  As evidenced by yesterday.

Because yesterday I gave birth to you.  Naturally.  And by naturally, I mean without the use of the Happy Machine, aka epideral.  First, on purpose, thinking, “Hmm, let’s see what this whole non-medicated birth experience is like”.  Then, once the “holy crap, this really hurts, I don’t wanna do this any more pleaseandthankyou” set in, on accident, because, see, you wanted to come into the world.  Right.  Then.

It all started Sunday night.  Well, it started a while ago, but I don’t think you want to hear the “When a man and a woman love each other” talk that a friend of mine loved to give.  But on Sunday night I had this strange urge to clean and tidy:  strange because it was my list of things to do on Monday, but this sudden desire of “I need to get these things done NOW” set in, so I bustled around doing laundry and paying bills and wiping down the kitchen and all other manner of Type A Dren activities.  Then when I went to lay down for bed, the contractions set in.  Not abnormal:  nightly fakers have been happening for a while now.  But these felt … different.

So we had a talk.  ”Boo, this is not a good time.  Your dad has work to get done tomorrow, and he also has a horrible case of The Oak and is going to be treated in the morning.  Your brother starts school on Wednesday, Grandmom had things going on Tuesday, and I’d like to go to Bible Study on Thursday.  You know what?  My schedule is clear on Friday.  I know I’ve prayed for you to come, but really:  I can wait until Friday.  So let’s wait, okay?”  And in response there was a very tight, uncomfortable “sqeeeeze”.  Here we go.

I got up and started cleaning more:  unloading the dishwasher, taking care of emails, making more lists of Things For Grandmom to Know While Watching Da Boys Even Though She Already Knows Everything But It Makes Me Feel Better, etc.  Your father woke up to take his four-hour dose of Benadryl (as requested by me because he’s so much more pleasant when not constantly scratching) and asked what I was doing.  ”I think I’m in labor.  Contractions have been every ten minutes for the past few hours.  So I futzing around and reading up on “When You Need to Go to the Hospital”.  I refuse to go into major labor now:  this can wait until the morning, so you can go back to sleep.  I didn’t want to wake you so you can get some rest.  Can you rest?”  ”Yep.”  And back he trundled to bed.  He did sleep.  I wore myself out by two, or at least enough to sleep through the gut squeezes, and woke up three hours later when your father was re-Benadryling and Calamine Lotioning (it’s been a fun few days around our house, let me tell you).

“Should I call your Mom?”

“Yep.”

Pushes buttons.  ”Good morning.  Yes, she’s in labor.  Okay, see you in a bit.”

And we were off and running.  I took That Last Shower, cleaned up, bustled around more – lists, packing, etc.  Because I’m a Melancholy personality type, and we plan for EVERYTHING.  You’ll find out.  Hope it doesn’t smoosh your free-wheeling style:  I think I can factor that into my plannings.  :)

So the contractions were coming fast, but I was determined to a) wait for Grandmom and 2) have a normal morning with your brothers, minus the very concentrated moaning I would emit every few minutes.  Your father was a bit concerned, but I wanted.my.oatmeal.  So Grandmom came, we headed off, listening to a podcast of the Splendid Table that your father tried to talk to me about later that evening and I commented that for some reason, I didn’t really hear what Lynn Rosetto Casper had said:  I was a bit distracted.

We got to the hospital, wheeled upstairs, and got settled in the exact same room I had been in last at the Birth Center (your oldest brother was born at the “Old” hospital where I got to watch Fox students walk from their dorms to class and was really hopeful that the windows were tinted or if they heard my labor yowlings, would use that as a really effective message of Why To Have Safe Sex).  I had planned on doing my usual “Hospital Gown Modeling” photo, but somehow that didn’t happen.  Because I couldn’t stop contracting.  And that’s not a picture you can go back and recreate later.  Oh well.

The rest is kind of a haze, which is a good thing, because I do remember thinking, “I don’t know why women give birth naturally more than once:  what crazy pills are they on, and I don’t know that I want any.”  Things I remember:

Being poked six times before getting an IV hook-up to work – apparently my veins roll and/or collapse.  Kinda like my resolve about that point.  The nurse apologized over and over.  Your dad almost passed out:  something he’s never experienced.  Something about taking Benadryl for four days, not sleeping much for six days, and only eating cereal for breakfast caught up with him.  That’s why I wanted my oatmeal:  much more of a stick-with-ya factor.

Praying to God, “Pleasepleaseplease”.  When you’re in a bad place, Anne Lamott says that’s the best prayer.

Getting an IV in and being able to get off of my back (ugh) and up into a squatting position, the only thing that’s felt comfortable with you.  I had bad sciatic pain in labor with your brothers, hence the drugs.  But this time I had a talk with God about how I’d really like to know that my body can do this, that I have this image of being a physical wimp and would love a redeeming experience.  So apparently He went above and beyond granting my desire cause I couldn’t have gotten drugs even if I wanted to:  there was no time.

Thinking (and apparently verbalizing out loud, oops) that if your dad was going to pass/crap out on me that I was having drugs.  See, I couldn’t do it on my own:  we wanted to do this as a team.  So often I do things on my own:  ”It’s fine, I’ll take care of it” will probably be on my gravestone (as opposed to your Granddaddy, which Grandmom says will say, “I didn’t do it/It’s not my fault”.  We’re very gracious in our family, as you’ll find out ).  But nothing would de-tense me except the calm, verbal reminders of your Dad:  ”Breathe.  Take it down.  Unclench your face/jaw/hands/toes.”  And I would.  As much as I could.

In the words of A Knight’s Tale (which was going to be the movie I wanted to watch while killing time waiting for contractions to pick up:  HA!):  ”Pain.  Lots of pain.”  Ugh.  Labor.  Hurts.  Which I knew, but I didn’t know.  The nurses told me to let them know when I was going to push, because while they could deliver a baby on their own, they liked to have Dr. Tami around to catch her.  I remember a nurse saying that to me, word for word, three times.  And each time I was pushing, thinking, “Um, I can’t tell you that I’m pushing because I’m busy PUSHING.”  And they aren’t kidding when it’s TheIntenseDesireToPush.  Because logically I did not want to:  it hurt.  But nothing was going to stop that bearing down instinct.  Ugh.

That I don’t like pushing.

Dr. Tami wearing a really nice dress and having a new haircut, and wanting to tell her, but I couldn’t make any of the words coming out of my mouth sound nice or conversational, but mostly desperate please, groans, or fairly instructional directions.  She tried to joke with me, and I was glad that she knew the difference between Dren-at-an-Appointment and Crazy-Dren-in-Labor.

Grabbing the bar, feeling your head come out, hearing words of praise, thinking, “But her shoulders still have to come out, and they’re wider than her head, and I’M DONE.”  I pleaded to be done; your dad got teary.  I heard the nurses and Tami joking:  apparently your head poked out, you opened your head, and started looking around like, “What’s going on?”  No cries or alarm:  cause you’ve heard me yell a plenty, just usually preceded with a “JJ!” or “ABE!”  And a few of the longest.moments.ever. you came out.  They were so happy; I was simply done.

Not getting to be done.  Because while you came out really quickly (well, quickly according to the people who did not give birth to you), the bits and pieces that were supposed to come out afterwards did not.  And it hurt more than labor.  Which was saying something.  I reached my limit:  I simply wanted to hug you and cuddle you and call you George like the WB Abominable Snowman, but they wanted to push and pull and do horribly painful things to me.  I admit that I cried:  I felt like a toddler pleading with adults that I couldn’t do anymore but being treated like, “Oh, you’re just tired.”  I almost kicked Dr. Tami out of sheer reaction of “Leave me alone”:  instincts are crazy things.  After getting an OB in the room, having some pitocin (ugh), and hearing a nurse say “Let’s just pray that this just comes right out”, I thought, “Hmm, this is a bigger deal than I realize” and “Oh.  Right.  God.  Prayer”.

Again, with the “pleasepleaseplease” and “thankyouthankyouthankyou” when it all finally came out, people stopped poking and prodding so much, and we got to snuggle.

You are lovely, little girl.  Ten fingers – long fingernails.  Ten toes – none webbed (sorry, Unca Matt).  LOTS of black hair.  I remember someone commenting on that, and when seeing it the first time, me saying, “Oh, Gran’s gonna cry.”  Cause you looked like I did:  eskimo baby – all black hair and red red skin.  You and me and Abe will be hiding out in the shade while Dad and JJ run around in the beach without sunscreen, getting all tan and skin-cancery.

You nurse like a champ:  1hr. 15min. with the first go.  You love to snuggle.  Your cry hasn’t warmed up to full potential yet, methinks.  You like to use me as a human pacifier, which is okay while we’re on “vacation”, but honey, we got boys to take care of when we get home, so this eating thing will be more functional than luxury – for both of us.  Nights and days are mixed up, but hey:  who doesn’t love the night life? (love to boogie?).  Fluids and solids go in and come out in all the right ways.

People have come to visit, love, adore, and bless you.  No matter what you may ever think, know that you are a prayed for, wanted, planned, loved blessing from above, and we are so happy that you came to join us in these crazy trips around the sun.  I love you, Darling Daughter.

Love, Ma

Boo Blatherings, Mama Musings | 10 Comments »

My kids love music.  Correction:  my kids love kid music.  You know, the cds marketed with the high pitched voices, frenetic pace, and annoyingly catchy lyrics?  And, unlike their mother of wee attention span, they can listen to these cds over.  And over.  And over.  I think that’s the root of the problem.  A new cd enters the cd player.  I feel relief:  “Oh, thank goodness:  something new.”  And it’s played and played and played until, in a rare moment of silence, we find ourselves humming or speaking something from the album.  “6 is afraid of 7.  Why?  Cause 7 8 9.”  “Oh no no I never go to work, oh no no I never go to work.”  “Hey Victor.  Are you ready?  To eat some spaghetti with Freddy?“  It makes for some very intellectual conversation over dinner.*

So I’m taking some initiative in my library holds by getting music as well as books (so many books – they had to set aside my pile in my own “section” last time.  Rock on.).  This way the kids can listen the heck out of the cd, but oops:  it has to go bu-bye.  And:  I try to get music that’s *not* available at my library so on the off chance that I actually let them frolic about merrily in the children’s section and they come across a beloved listen, I don’t have to be The Big Mean Mama or the Passive-Aggressive “Fine, Check it out, and I’ll resent you for it everytime it’s played” Martyr Mama (I’m good at both).

This week:  Blast Off.  From the Salem Library.  A little more honkey tonk than I was expecting, but this afternoon totally redeemed anything that makes my n0-country-in-this-household sensor go off.

I heard the strains of some familiar tune, but continued on with my work.  Then I heard JJ repeat it.  Again.  And Again.  Finally removing the earbuds from my ears, I realized what it was and did a little jig (as much as I can jig these days) – a cover from my favorite childhood/maybe allhood movie of all time: “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious”.  Funny thing is I don’t think JJ has seen the movie all the way through, but for some reason, he *knew* this was a song he needed in his life.

Is this due to nature?  Or nurture?  I don’t really care because a vegetable isn’t singing it.

*[And yes, I've heard from other parents, in rather condescending tones, "Oh, we don't *allow* that kind of music in the house.  My child only likes jazz/classical/U2/Nora Jones/African tribal drum circles."  Bully for you.  Doesn't really help me feel better in my current circumstances, does it?  Sometimes we can't control everything that comes into the house.  And when your child discovers Barney or Yo Gabba Gabba, I'll try to empathize, since my natural smirk is probably about as helpful as those comments.]

Mama Musings | 2 Comments »

Most of the comments I hear throughout my day:

• “When are you due?”
• “Wow:  you still haven’t had that kid?”
• “Any day now, right?”
• “Geez:  you sure are stickin’ out there.”
• “You must be *so* ready to be done with this.”
• “Wow:  she’s about to pop!”
• “And you really don’t have a name picked out yet?”
• “Mon-kee!  Mon-kee!” – which is actually Abe asking me to read a Cookie Monster book to him.  For the fifth time in a row.

So yes:  I’m still waddling in my neck of the woods, and I’m actually quite fine with that.  At night, when I’m having contractions (both wimpy preppers and the real take-my-breath-away-aw-crap-this-is-gonna-hurt ones), I may think, “Hmm:  tomorrow would be a nice day to have a baby.  Then I won’t have to …” [insert:  do laundry, grocery shop, make dinner, clean up the ever-present crumbs, deal with preschool orientation, take one more deep breath while dealing with my toddler].

And every morning I wake up and realize:  “Hmm, it’s not today.  That’s okay, now I can …” [take the boys to the Coffee Cottage for a play date, get dressed up for Bible study, clean and organize and clean some more, enjoy more hours of consistent sleep than I will for a while, not have an excruciatingly sore bum].

I’m not surprised that she’s not here, honestly.  True, the due date’s September 19th/20th:  a week + to go.  If she followed the ways of her brothers, she would’ve come today, though:  Abe – 11, JJ – 12, Hubby – 13.  Makes it easier for me to remember birthdays, although months and years get tricky.    No, see, Hubby and I know this one is our free spirit:  she’s a girl, she’s the youngest, and she’s going to do just whatever she wants (methinks the bossing will come from the youngest up).  The boys felt ready to come:  pushing and stretching and making me really uncomfortable.  So far Boo and I have worked out a mostly-agreeable symbiosis (minus the sciatic pain:  nothing like the feel of randomly touching an electric fence shoot from your bum to your toes):  I have occasional bouts of insomnia, I have only recently had to pee every hour, I’ve been able to sit without feeling like I needed a lift to get my stomach out of my lap.

I haven’t hit the miserable point yet, and until I reach that, I don’t think she’ll come.  I remember sitting in Abe’s room, in the rocker, looking over at the stocked closet and the cradle all ready to go, praying, pleading, “Pleeeease come!  Please!  There’s no reason to stay in there!  Outside has so much more room!  And look:  you have presents!  To use!  And play with!  Come play with them already!”  Part of me would like to hit the miserable point so she will maybe recognize, “Uh oh:  pushing the host a little to far.  Vacate before she gets drastic!”  But then a real contraction hits, and putting off labor another day doesn’t sound so bad.

This tune may change as I see the forecast for this weekend, and if she doesn’t want to comply, then maybe we’ll just try a “practice run” of labor.  I’m sure the Birthing Center wouldn’t mind. 

Boo Blatherings, Daily Drivel, Mama Musings | 2 Comments »

Pardon my twitching lower abdomen:  *someone* is practicing the lovely art of having the hiccups.  *All**the**time*.

It’s funny how I don’t remember things from pregnancy to pregnancy.  I’ve heard countless mothers say the same thing, but I always thought, “How could you forget such an amazing, precious, life-transforming thing?”  And then I tell Hubby:  “This kid has so many more hiccups than the boys!” to which he responds, ‘Uh uh, Abe had a lot of them, too.”

Really?  Honestly, I don’t believe him, but my shrinking pregnant brain is in no shape to argue.  Although I did manage to find some small bit of lucidity to defend my position that “Runnin’ Down a Dream” by Tom Petty is *not* alternative radio material, even though I heard it on our local alternative station.  Don’t question my understanding of the Tom Petty cultural phenomenon or my ability to quote “Grosse Pointe Blank”:  you’ll get a beat-down.

I used to be floored that my mom couldn’t remember what year my brother was born, or would flip our birth dates (24, 26).  And now people, like the children’s pastor at a church we were visiting a few months ago, ask, “How old is JJ?”  To which I respond, “Oh, 5.”  “Um, then he needs to be in the 5′s class.”  “Oh, I’m sorry.  He’s really 4.5, but both my kids like to act at least six months older than their age.”  Yeah, step away from the crazy pregnant lady.

The only thing I can remember about the in utero boys is that JJ wedged his boot in my right rib cage – a LOT – , and Abe stuck his butt out, stretching my stomach to the point that I thought it would rip and reenact one of my mama’s most favoritist scenes from a movie (she was a lot more selective about what movies she would see with my father after that one ).  And the boys both moved:  a LOT.

So far this little one doesn’t have any trademark moves except for the regular hic.hic.hic.hic and the nightly Zoomba sessions.  That, and seemingly not liking to be touched or talked to:  more than once she’s jumped when people touch my stomach, and Hubby’s gotten a few pops to the nose when asking her what’s going on.

But she does seem to like to listen to Tom Petty.  How do I know?  Because I’ve dreamed about Tom Petty.  Twice.  And he’s on the radio a lot lately.  And I really like it.

And while I could leave you with a link to a Tom Petty song, I’m not going to.  Because while searching for the above youtube clip, I came across this.  And it makes me happy (and will be today’s homage to Mikey J:  gotta be culturally relevant).

Daily Drivel, Mama Musings | No Comments »

A while ago, when my idealistic side got access to the Dreaming parts of my brain (meaning the Realistic side had worn out of making lists and lists and more lists), I wondered about the sleeping situations at Chez Dren.  We have three bedrooms, all occupied.  What could we change?  What if the little bros. shared a sleeping room?  And we could turn the other room into a playroom/office?  In college many folks lived in the suites and had a Sleeping Room and a Working Room.

I broached the idea with Hubby who immediately said, “Why?  I always had my own room.  Who would want to share?”  I, too, had my own room and *loved* it.  But our eldest’s need for alone time seems to be done within thirty minutes of falling asleep, and then he’s ready to put on his party shoes again.

Then a little Boo decided to make her presence known, and room reorgs had to happen.  I already have two scruffy roommates (at least one of them shaves on a regular/semi-regular basis depending if it’s No Shave November or not; the other one just sheds on my side of the bed) plus now a short-term renter whose 40-week lease will not be up for renewal.

We got bunks.  Yes, we are suburban IKEA web2.0ers with young boys in bunk beds.  Who woulda thunk it?  The beds were purchased and set up a while ago, and in typical fashion, we’ve been doing things in “stages”:  let JJ get used to them, move Abe to a regular bed in his room, move Abe to the bunk bed while JJ was up at the Grand’rents, and then the final installment which began on Saturday:  the boys share a room.

We had a brief bout of sharing rooms when visiting Hubby’s folks, and they did …. okay.  They fell asleep LATE, but that might have happened anyway.  The immediate benefit I noticed:  entertainment without the presence of adults.  Talking to each other.  Sharing toys.  Bossing each other around.  Trying to get the other one to do something they weren’t supposed to:  you know, all the stuff that siblinghood is about.

So Saturday night we loaded them in the room.  Abe:  delighted, jumped in the bed, pulled the sheets up, “ByEEEE”.  JJ:  “But I want to sleep on the bottom!”  Sigh.  However, they managed to entertain each other.  Until 10:15 pm.  JJ only came out of the room a few time with reports:  “I bonked my knee and it hurts.”  “Abe wanted this toy and I gave it to him.”  “We want the windows open and lights on.”  “I didn’t open the blinds, but *someone* did.”  Tears exploded only a few times.  When Hubby went to tuck the boys in after the final passout, they were continuing to share … the bottom bunk.  My response:  “I don’t care what they do, as long as I don’t have to get involved after they go in that room.”

That’s honestly my feeling.  I. Don’t. Care.  JJ gave us quite the workout training him to stay in his room and fall asleep.  Seriously.  It was training:  for us all (although Hubby did most the heavy lifting, or containing).  Every few moments, the door would creak open, or “tip toes” would be hurting running across the hall.  It was exhausting.  Abe, however, doesn’t seem to know that’s an option, and even when JJ leaves on Reporting Duty, he mostly stays in the room.  Progress!

Until 5:30am the next morning, that is, when I heard “tip toes” running through the hall and blinds being opened.  “Hubby:  Boys.Up.”  He immediately shuttled them back to bed:  Abe conked out, JJ bided his time for an hour until he could stand it no longer.  His morning report:  “Mama, I let Abe share the bottom bed with me.  And then I woke up and said, ‘Rise and shine!’  But Dad made us come back to bed:  why?”

They’re still adjusting.  JJ’s new favorite “mean thing” to say:  “I don’t want ANYONE to share MY room!”  Abe doesn’t like having quiet time in his old room, because then he might actually fall asleep, and might be a bit more pleasant (not necessarily, though).  Hubby’s dealing with the boys being loud, even if contained, for a longer period of the day.

Last night I was putting the boys to bed solo, which honestly I was dreading to a degree:  I was Reported Out.  But they fell asleep.  Both.  In a few minutes.  In their own beds.  It was so … idealistic.  It may not happen again anytime soon, but it *did* happen, and I will savor that for at least a few sleeping times to come.

Daily Drivel, Mama Musings | 2 Comments »

“Mama, how can I help?”

Dreaded words for a chronic “I’ll do it myself” person.  And yet that’s what my eldest has been asking all morning.

I know I should be grateful that he wants to help because it will only last for so long (if any of my DNA runs through his veins, which, by the by, are blue and carry blood away from the heart as he will tell you and other small tykes on the playground:  thank you, The Busy Body Book).  But I just want to do it *myself*.  Because I can do it faster.  And “right”.

Hubby and I were discussing the grace-growing experiences we’re having with JJ as of late.  Grace-growing as in “stretching us in ways we don’t wanna and don’t think we should hafta and yet we gotta or it’s gonna be ugly”.  Even the way we form sentences are being restructured, working the Dr. Phil out of us (“YOU need to do this; YOU have to change; YOU must do it this way; YOU YOU YOU”), engaging some more creative grammatical structure:

Rather than “Shut the screen door already!”, “It’s TIME to close the door!”

Rather than “I’m going to throw your shoes in the street if I trip over them again!”, “Shoes go in the closet!”

Rather than “For the love of all that is holy and good, stop sitting on your brother!”, “When Abe is sat on and starts screeching, I get frustrated because my ears hurt.  What can we do about this?”

Hubby commented on how the books we’re reading have such nicely laid out situations for solving tension:  “The kids reason and offer solutions.  I did what the author said:  JJ just fell on the floor and rolled his eyes.”  I told him he needed to read further, because the author says, “Of course, sometimes none of these things work out, and everyone screams and goes to their rooms.  And then you can apologize and start fresh again.”  That’s the only reason the book didn’t end up in the street with size 11T shoes.

I read about Montessouri methods and home schooling and think, “Oh, that sounds so wonderful and experiential and cool”.  That would be my idealistic side.  Taking time to have the kids clean alongside me, not minding that they go slowly or don’t get all the crumbs.  Letting them get covered in paint from head to toe and not feeling that I needed to scrub everything to get it clean.  Setting up a station for them to sit at and play not needing or wanting supervision ….

It’s TIME to stop laughing now (note how I didn’t command you to stop laughing:  look at me growing).

Somehow this Montessouri education is happening, and yet it’s mostly to me.  This is not what I had planned.  I already went to school, skated through, in fact.  Lesson learned, kids:  when one thinks they know it all, all the things they don’t know or didn’t think they needed to know move into the house and become covered in pudding pop goo, as I now have the opportunity to discuss the finer points of getting food *in* one’s tummy, not *on* one’s tummy.

Entertaining Evidence, Mama Musings, Uncategorized | 2 Comments »

It’s June!  It’s summer!

(Enjoying an ice cream sandwich, or guarding it lest others might think they needed a taste.  Believe me, we didn’t).

I wore full-body long johns last week!  But the week before I wore summery clothes.  And put away the boys’ winter clothes.  Which I had to resurrect so that sweats weren’t worn to church.  We’re laid back, but oh, my sweet Southern deceased grandmothers might just have to beat Christ at his own game and have a little resurrection time of their own:  “You sent my grandbaby to Sunday meeting wearing what?!!”

A number of my friends were voicing concern due to the change in the season:

• “School’s almost out.”
• “It’s going to get hot.”
• “What am I going to do with these kids all day?”

I remember that panic from last year, that dread of “I’m in charge of scheduling all this time?”  To which this year I shouted a “Glory, hallelujah!  I don’t have to be anywhere or do anything!  I’m in charge!  And We’re Staying Home!”  Hmm:  who doesn’t want to waddle after two active boys in public as onlookers gawk and stare at the Crazed Hormonal Woman?  It’s been a very religious experience so far, as you can tell.

JJ “graduated.”

It was during the “heat wave”:  it was warm:  it was a nighttime thing during a busy week:  I really didn’t want to go.  He’ll be going back to the same Pre-K program next year, so it felt so anticlimactic.  However, each child had a role.  That they led the class in.  Up front.  In alphabetical order (which would explain why JJ comes home from school chanting his classmates names in alphabetical order, letting me know who was and was not present.  It does warm a former librarian’s heart a bit).

JJ led the class in reciting numbers.

During “prairie quest” time, he asked for healing for Abe’s scratch on his knee (which stays present due to someone’s picking fixation).  Can’t imagine why he has a scrape on his knee.

And then the “aw” moment of the evening”:  led by his friend Jacob – “Class, it’s time for thanksgivings.  JJ, what are you thankful for?”  “You.”  Seriously.  That earned him a few “get out of parental frustration free” points, which were quickly used up at the after-party – cookies and juice and primary colored napkins (we were instructed on what to bring.  Teacher L runs a tight ship).

So now we’re in the throws of summer.  The first request:  “Can we eat breakfast at the park?”  SURE!  Which has been requested since then, but sitting on a wet picnic bench just isn’t so appealing.  That’s just how summer rolls:  no rhyme or reason, Little Man.

Now JJ lets everyone know, “I’m not going to school anymore.  I’m on Summer ‘Cation.  I’ll go back to school on September 12th”.  His birthday.  Which is not the date that he starts school, but it’s the best way to help give him a concept of time, and to get him to stop asking me, “Am I going to school today?”  Oh, and his sister is arriving on that day as well according to him:  I’m glad he’s got it all scheduled out.  Maybe she can even be his show-and-tell, that or mama’s freaky-floppy-stretchy-stomach:  that could really wow the crowd.

I know it’s been a good year when JJ’s pouting because he’s gotten too riled up and we had to get him away from his friends, and he says, “I don’t love my friends anymore.  Just you and Dad and Abel and God and Teacher L.”  Just like I said to my mama about my first grade teacher (except it was more in the context of , “Well, you may not love me anymore, but Mrs. Iverson always will.”  Oh, the sting).

So now we’re cruising through summer.  Posts will follow regarding events – wouldn’t want to flood you with too much Drenness.  Plus, I need to go finish reading about The Blue Zone lifestyle and Husband Coached Childbirth because I have the most random Books On Hold list at the library ever.

JJ Jawings, Random Remarks | 1 Comment »

Dear Miss Boo,

Okay, so I’m going to get a lot of flack for writing you a post right now because you don’t have a birthday, or as your eldest brother (whom I’m sure you will soon be coerced into addressing as JJ the Eldest, as opposed to you who will be JJ the Youngest, because he’s determined that you should share a birthday *and* a name.  That, or your name should be House – not after the TV show, just “House”) would say, “The baby’s zero!”  And I didn’t write to your brothers until they were born, or thereafter, but you know what?  I’m whipping out the ol’ parental card of “They’ll/You’ll Just Have to Deal” and “Not Everything is Fair”.  Because I can.

I figured I should clear up some details, just so I don’t start scarring your poor little psyche at the tender age of minus 18ish weeks.  We love you.  We want to welcome you into the family.  We’re excited about your arrival!  And just because we didn’t tell people about your Booness until we found out your gender does not mean we were in denial or didn’t want you or only wanted a certain gender.  Really, the question of, “So, you’re trying for a girl?” is fairly repulsive to me, and I already had so many other reasons to be sick to my stomach (like eating, or not eating, or driving, or walking, or breathing).

Really, it’s all my fault.  See, you can already start playing the “It’s All My Mother’s Fault” card, because *that* is your right, your heritage.  The fact that I told my mom that I had the title of my first book all worked out (“My Mother’s Southern and Other Reasons I Am the Way I Am”) in high school should’ve been a bit of foreshadowing for me (enter foreboding music).  Your father probably would’ve told everyone in church when I casually showed him the positive pregnancy test I’d been carrying around in my pocket (don’t worry:  it wasn’t the kind where you pee on the stick – it was more hygenically containable):  I didn’t know when or how to tell him, so before open worship seemed as good a time as any.

I felt the same about when to tell everyone else.  Your father would ask, “Now?”  My response, “Enh.”  “We have ultrasound pictures.”  ‘Yeah, but … something could still happen.”  “We’ve had two appointments.”  “Yeah, but I’m not showing *that* much.”  “We now know the gender, and your gut is protruding, and JJ knows, and we have to tell people sometime.”  “Yeah, well, Sami Brady was able to have a baby while she was in protective custody, and nobody knew, so I could just hang out most of the summer at home ….”

See, I just don’t deal with the attention well.  And then we found out you were a girl, which brought down these overwhelming emotions so totally different from each other, like trying to decide what to eat while at Epcot:  am I feeling Japan, or Morrocco?  Canada, or Sweden?  Oooh:  Mickey Mouse Shaped Ice Cream Cones!  I was excited!  I was freaked!  I was going to have pink in my house!  I have to learn how to do hair!  I’m going to deal with bloomers and patent leather shoes! (which my Northern friends will not understand why those elements will have to be in my house.  But they also give quizzical looks when I talk about the War of Northern Aggression).  I’m going to have to throw a wedding someday instead of just Rehersal Dinners!

But you don’t deal well with attention, either, since we had a longer-than-usual ultrasound due to the fact that you were still until you sensed that measurements were taking place.  Then, “Retreat!  Retreat!”  It’s like you thought Dr. Tami’s “got big fangs!”  And when she went to get your profile shot?  Well, after five to seven minutes of poking and prodding, she gave up:   “Well, her face is smashed into your placenta, and she’s wedged her head as far as she can into your pubic bone:  the profile shot is not happening.”  Sigh.  Followed up with, “That’s my girl!”  Which we really know you’re a girl, because we have about five beautiful patootie shots of you since that was your way of expressing your thoughts of the ultrasound experience.

You also proceeded to let me know how much you enjoyed the experience by kicking me.  For over 24 hours.  Which a few of those were spent on a teeny tiny airplane.  Helpful.

Your dad posted your pictures online, and I made an enigmatic comment on Facebook, because that’s my hangout of choice at the moment.  With your eldest brother, I just left an ultrasound picture out on the front desk of the office I worked at with the comment, “By Hubby & Dren”, which there were other pregnant people in the office, so folks assumed it was their picture.  With Abe, the cat kinda got taken out of the bag by a friend, but for the most part we announced to folks (including your extended family) by making a video of clips of JJ with “Coming Attractions” and pics of your compliantly-ultrasounded brother at the end.  And when we posted stuff, we were in the middle of the U.S.:  not so much close to home.  So I guess I did leave and come back home “pregnant.”  If only closer to the end …

We are excited for you to come meet us, darling daughter:  to see your face, to hold your fingers, to play “This little piggy”.  We’re excited to introduce you to our community who is SO happy to meet you.  And we’re loving that we get to know you.  But know:  your father will have a camera, and wireless access, in the hospital:  things will be documented.  So get ready to put on the cute face, otherwise you *will* have butt shots posted online for all to see, including high school friends (God bless the WayBack Machine). 

I love you, Baby Boo.

~Ma

Boo Blatherings, Mama Musings | 2 Comments »

So, you know how you’re at home, trying to take the obligatory belly shot to appease the masses (or at least the one or two gals who you pestered, and turnabout’s fair play), and your husband comes home with the preschooler.  And sits on the couch.  And pulls out his phone.

“What are you doing?”
“I’ve been getting these 800 number calls.  I finally answered:  it was Capital One, and they want to talk to you.”
“Did they say why?”
“No.   They wouldn’t, or they couldn’t.  But they want you to call them back.”

And you get that feeling like your dad or your teacher or some authority-figure in your life has busted you for something, but you have to play the guessing game as to what exactly it could be? ….

…………………

And you know how you call the number, and are instructed to enter your credit card number, but you can’t, cause you don’t have one, and you never did?

And how if you keep saying, “I.Don’t.Have.A.Credit.Card” you finally get a menu option where you can push buttons to finally get to a person?

And how that person has an Indian accent, and you have flashbacks of Slumdog and wonder truly where your call is routed to and if they’re sitting in a spot with “Red Hills” and “Cannon Beach” and “Lumpy’s” signs on the walls so they could “be” in my vicinity?

And how when you say you can’t give a credit card number to them because you’re never had a credit card with them, and your husband has never had a credit card with them, and no, you don’t have a credit card with them, and your husband *still* doesn’t have a credit card with them, and you’ve never had a credit card with them and … ?

And then when they say you need to give your social security number instead, that you can’t continue with nice Librarian Dren but have to drag out the I Learned From A Roommate Who Put Many a Person In Their Place When Asking for Ridiculous Requests Dren, and you say that you’re not comfortable with that and don’t think you should *have* to be?

And you run downstairs to google the number, because now you’ve decided that you’re part of some Dateline “Can you believe they fell for this?” rip-off story?  But google says it’s Capital One.  But you’re still not gonna give up the SS?

So they say they can’t help you and let you know how unreasonable you are in subtle inflections.  But they’ll call back again if need be.  Which you’ll never get the call, because it’s going to your husband.  And they won’t talk to him.  And that menu option of “report credit card loss or fraud press 3″ lingers in your head?

…………

And you bank on talking to another person when you call back.  And you do:  a guy who sounds all-American down to the, ‘Uh, yeah, uh, can I get your name?  Is that Z like zoo?”  Because he asks for your name, not your non-existent credit card number, nor your your social security number?

And it takes him ten minutes to spell your name, and then says, “Oh” and then “Uh” and then “I need to talk to someone else”?

So you sit in silence, with your belly solid as if you ate stone soup for lunch, and wait, and wait, and wait?

Until he comes back on and says, “Oh, the reason we called is we’d *like* to offer you an account with Capital One:  would you be interested?”

And you have two options on how to react, and choose simply to laugh at the utter rediculousness of it all rather than let the Hormonal One be unleashed, because you have enough battles in your life, and this poor guy can’t possibly get many people laughing somewhat hysterically at him over the phone, and maybe that would make his day a bit nicer?

And you say, “No, thank you.” and thank him for his “help” and hang up and think that this could be an excellent means of inducing labor when the time comes, but dang it, it’s not going to help you calm down for quiet time while the boys are down?

……………….

Yeah, me, neither.

Seriously:  belly.hurts.  But my stress level is waaaay down.

And here it is:  in all it’s glory.

Picture one:  Good Posture.  Also, how I walked around in public for many weeks while ignoring the fact that there was a Miss Boo bouncing around in my belly.

Picture Two:  Bad Posture.  Also known as, tired of sucking it in, and it’s nighttime, and seriously:  how do I look like my friends who are 37 weeks pregnant already?

Many women note that the popping out of the belly button is their indicator that “We’re ready to go!”  So, does that mean I get a “get out of the third trimester free?” card? The button’s not totally obvious in this picture, but I really don’t want to repulse folks:  stretched out three times is a bit much, apparently.

And no, (Heidi), I’m not wearing maternity pants yet:  denial can be a blissful place to be, although I do find myself getting into pajama pants at night ealier and earlier.

And yes, that is a pedometer:  we’re back on the 10,000 steps program.  Because we don’t have enough going on in our lives right now ….

Boo Blatherings, Daily Drivel | 3 Comments »